Where Is Your Heart?
by kiwigeek
Summary: A short-story of Mary and Dickon's young new family, shared with Colin. Mary reflects on her happiest  and not so happy  moments shared with her beloved cousin and the illness that returned and eventually took his life.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay so this is just a little something I thought up when I was watching the Secret Garden movie the other night. All from the scene when Colin is taking photos of Mary and Dickon on the swing. I do apologise if certain things differ from the book, but this is based on the movie mainly. Give it a go! :)  
><strong>**  
><strong>**Chapter 1**

"Just face it, Colin, you hate him, you always have and you always will."

Colin won't look at me. He always averts his gaze whenever I bring up his lifelong jealousy of Dickon. I do my best not to speak of it. But sometimes his snide and sarcastic comments about my husband force me to confront him. He angers me to no end.

"I do not hate him, Mary." Colin snaps angrily, still staring at the ground, as if he was willing a giant hole to open up and swallow him.

"Well, you certainly do not love him, not the way you used to. Why are you so jealous? What is it?"

Colin's head whips up and his eyes meet mine. "Leave me alone, Mary!" He slowly wheels himself away from me, closer to the fireplace. The tartan blanket wrapped over his legs gets caught in the wheel in the process, though, and falls off his frail legs to the ground.

"Oh, Colin," I murmur, moving to him to retrieve his blanket. I start to tuck it back over his legs for him, when he pushes me away.

"Just leave me." He growls, huffing crossly.

I drop the blanket back to the floor, anger of my own rising inside me now. "Fine, do it yourself." I storm from the room, slam the door behind me and march up to my bedroom.

Colin is only 27 now, but his health has been deteriorating for years. He was walking for many of them, but his 'disease', the one which I was so sure had never existed, has returned and crippled him once again. Very quickly, nearly as soon as he was once more chair-bound, he reverted back to his sour, angry ways. He is now much the same 10-year-old boy I met all those years ago – spoilt, bedridden and always bad-tempered. You couldn't say a single word to him without it being turned into an argument. When he became so bad, I decided to move him from Misselthwaite Manor, where he was nearly always alone, no doubt left to brood on his ill fortune in the dark, to the small house that Dickon and I own in York.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and hang my head in my hands, exhausted from trying to fight with the cousin I still dearly love, despite all his bitter shortcomings. He made it so hard sometimes, to even have a conversation. As if on cue, my beloved husband enters the room quietly. I don't look up, but feel him sit next to me on the bed, and reach his arm around me. The warmth is comforting.

I hear his voice in my ear. "Colin?" He asks simply.

All I have to do is nod, and everything is made clear to him. It is a very comforting thought that someone can understand you so well, so deeply, maybe even better than you understand yourself. Dickon's arms tighten around me, and I feel myself melting into his grasp. All my worries dissolve when I am here. Dickon can make everything disappear. His kind and gentle spirit seeps through any mental barrier you may have erected in defence, and melts hearts. All hearts, that is, except Colin's.

Finally, Dickon and I part and he leaves my side to organise his things for work. "What happened this time?"

"Oh, just the same as usual," I explain, rising to help him gather his equipment together, which always seems to get spread about all over the place, most likely due to the two small pairs of hands that invade our room on a regular basis. "I was downstairs, helping Penny with the breakfast when Colin came in and made a comment about you."

Dickon doesn't react, proving that he is used to this kind of story. They come in on a daily basis. Colin is forever demeaning his former best friend. "He really ought to get out of the house more, Mary."

I place a handful of papers into Dickon's satchel. He travels out to the moors to help the farms and properties out there with their gardens and sick animals. It doesn't pay very well but we get by and Dickon enjoys it. Technically, he is a vet, though without all the years at University and the letters next to his name. I believe his way with animals is far superior to any other man who wasted his years in a classroom. "I do know that. Penny got such a fright, she can be so frail around him."

Penny is our housemaid, has been for many years now. We can only afford one, which a lot of the neighbourhood seem to sneer at us for. But I certainly don't mind using my hands to keep our small house clean and tidy. Dickon and I manage quite well on our incomes. "She needn't be. There are far worse things in life than a cripple in a wheelchair." He says coldly.

I am rather taken aback by the comment. "_Dickon_—" We are interrupted when two young identical children open the door and come rushing in, squealing and giggling. Our twins, playing their favourite game – disturb mother and father. Craven and Martha are identical in all but gender and they have to do everything together. Including waking their parents up at all hours of the morning by breaking in and jumping on their bed. I watch from Dickon's side as they climb with their little legs up onto our bed and start bouncing up and down. I want to be annoyed and tell them off. But the gorgeous little evil grins on their faces won't let me.

"Come now, children, that's enough. You don't want to fall off and break a bone, do you?" Dickon drops his bag and ushers the twins down into a calm sitting position. They do as they are told obediently. Dickon places a kiss on each of their foreheads. "And besides, you were too late this morning to wake us up, you missed, you little rascals." He musses their hair before retrieving his satchel and heading downstairs for breakfast.

"Mother, can we go with father today?" Martha asks, looking incredibly angelic. Craven nods enthusiastically next to her. They only just turned five and already know how to tug on my heartstrings to no end.

"And who would stay at home to look after Penny and Colin while I am out? You know they need you here to keep them in line." This is a little joke we have running. The twins think they are in charge whenever both of their parents are out of the house. Really, it's the other way around. Penny and Colin look after them both in our absence. I work long hours at the schoolhouse around the corner, teaching new entrants. Very soon, I will be teaching my own children.

"Colin is _boring_, mama, and Penny tells us off all day long. She makes us sit in the corner when we're bad." Craven explains earnestly, putting on his puppy dog eyes.

I laugh in spite of myself and lift Craven into my arms. "Oh, really? Well, then, you should put _her_ in the corner when she is naughty. Come on, downstairs for breakfast now." I kiss his cheek and put him down again. Instantly he races to the door and down the stairs as fast as his little legs will carry him, with the thought of putting Penny in the corner to speed him up. Martha smoothens out her nightdress and walks elegantly out the door behind her brother. It brings a smile to my face, to watch them interact with each other. They can be so different. Yes, they have to do everything together but Craven has to be first at everything, the best and the know-it-all. He has to beat his sister. Martha is the angel; whenever her brother does something crude or obscene she reacts with disgust and tells me or her father immediately.

I follow them both downstairs to the kitchen, where Penny is dishing up porridge with brown sugar for the two munchkins waiting eagerly at the table. Dickon is quietly chewing on his buttered toast, reading the newspaper. I grab myself a piece of toast, spread some jam across it and stand at the kitchen bench to stare out the window. "Where's Colin?" I ask no one in particular.

Penny responds quietly, "He took his breakfast in the drawing room this morning, ma'am."

I sigh, gazing out at the square that we live on. He is forever isolating himself. For months now, I have been telling him over and over again to eat breakfast with us, his family but he allows himself to sink down deeper and deeper into his depressing thoughts until he becomes drowned with misery. Perhaps it's just the sight of seeing the twins, sitting at the table, swinging their legs freely. Or Dickon, tall and manly and muscular, with his legs crossed in his masculine way, emanating vigour. Watching Penny and I bustle about, upright, running around to prepare the children, probably gives him a sour taste in his mouth, I imagine, when he thinks about the unfairness of the world. I do ponder it myself sometimes. Why should the five of us walk around easily on strong, capable legs, while Colin is forced into his prison of a wheelchair? Who willed it, this inequality, this injustice? The only response I could ever come up with, after many a night spent awake, wondering, was that God was responsible. And God works in mysterious ways. I had come to accept it. Colin would not.

Turning around to watch my little family at breakfast, leaning against the counter, I sigh again, wearily. Only early morning and I am already feeling the world's weight on my shoulders, wearing me down. "You should go tell him to bring his food in here." Dickon says, without looking up from his newspaper.

The twins glance over at their father as drips of porridge slurp down their chins messily. "Mama, Colin is eating in the drawing room! We are not allowed! Can I put him in the corner too?" Craven pipes up, turning his brown eyes to meet mine, a mischievous glint playing at the corners.

Before I have a chance to respond, Martha decides to put in her penny's worth. She looks at her brother with stately contempt and says disdainfully, "Mother, I think _I_ should be the one to put him in the corner. We aren't allowed to get crumbs or food in the drawing room. I ought to spank him and make him clean them up!" We three adults in the room do our best to keep the sniggers at bay, but fail spectacularly as we all dissolve into quiet giggles.

Craven, naturally, thinks it is a game and starts giggling and cackling the minute he hears us laugh. Martha then does her best to behave better than her brother but eventually succumbs to the giggles until the kitchen is filled with five laughing, snickering maniacs. My mirth fades away when Colin appears in the doorway, his empty plate on his lap, eyeing us all with a cold jealousy. At first, I feel terrible. He probably thinks we are laughing at him. I try to search for some kind of excuse as all the laughter in the room peters out. Then I stop myself. It is _his_ fault he missed out on the laughter. He chose to separate himself from us. If he had opted for eating breakfast with his family, he would have known why we were giggling away like fools and he would have joined in.

In a split second, bitter green anger flashes across his face. "Laughing about me, are you? Making fun, cracking jokes at my expense? How very considerate of you!" He exclaims, before picking up his plate and throwing it on the floor. It smashes into pieces with a loud crash that startles the twins. They jump, suddenly frightened, and tears spring to Craven's eyes. I open my mouth in shock to see my cousin act in such a way. He passes me a final, narrow-eyed evil glare before wheeling himself back to the other end of the house where we converted the dining room into a bedroom for him. For a few seconds, the five of us sit there, staring at the broken plate pieces in shock. Then a wail escapes Craven's lips and the tears spill down his cheeks. As if on cue, Martha starts her own powerful howls. All from a simple smashed plate.

**So, yeah, more to come. Review your thoughts. Thanks.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Penny seems indecisive for a moment, as if torn between the crying children or the sharp shards of smashed dishware. Dickon folds his paper and tends to the twins, so Penny rushes forward to gather the pieces of the shattered plate. I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Leave it, Penny." She looks up at me questioningly. "Colin can tend to his own mess. That was incredibly childish of him. Leave it for him to clean up himself."

She dutifully obeys, rising instead to clear the table and start the dishes. Dickon has managed to quiet the twins, so I pick them up from their chairs, one under each arm, to take them to the drawing room to play. I struggle – two boisterous five-year-olds is no mean feat – but I manage. As soon as I leave the kitchen I hear Penny rush back to the mess to clean it up.

"Come now, children," I say, once I have placed them on the sofa in the drawing room, they both look at me with the same curious expressions, "Penny will be in shortly to start your lessons, and Mother and Father need to leave now, so in the meantime I want you to draw in your books. Okay? Mama loves you, flowers, see you tonight." I plant a loving kiss on each of their foreheads before closing the door behind me as I leave.

I hear Dickon and Penny murmuring quietly in the kitchen as they tidy up. For the time being, I ignore the sound of their voices, and the sounds of the gripes of my children as they begin to argue yet again over whose book is whose, and I decide instead to head down the hall towards where my cousin sits, no doubt grumbling to himself about how unfair things can be. I prepare myself to give him a good stern lecture. When it comes time for these, I usually alternate between soft, heart-to-heart talks about family and love, and the half-shouting monstrosity that leaves him quivering. I hope that giving it to him the hard way makes him see, for once, that he needs to make an effort in this family.

Stopping outside his bedroom door, I put my ear to the wood to try and discern what kind of mood he is in. I can hear a faint whimpering and sniffing and wincing, as if he is in pain. That doesn't sound normal, not like he normally would sound when he is feeling sorry for himself. I hesitate until I hear a cry of pain escape his lips, and I open the door quickly. Inside his room, Colin lies collapsed on the floor, red eyed, clutching his legs in pain. When he sees me, his eyes roll in the back of his head and he starts to fit. I am in shock momentarily, before I go into auto-mode and spring into action. I rush down to him, grab a pillow and place it under his head. It's the only thing I can do for now. His face is convulsing into grimaces of pain, his hands gripped into tight fists, the weak muscles in his arms tight and jerking. Colin has had several fits over the years, so I am reasonably used to them. That doesn't mean I am not worried and scared over the condition of my cousin. Every fit sends my heart racing a million times a minute.

After several minutes, I realise this isn't no ordinary fit. It's lasting far too long. "Colin, please…" I murmur to myself. When he begins to froth at the lips, fear strikes my heart. "Dickon! Dickon, help! Quickly!" I scream through the door.

Dickon comes running as fast as he can, with Penny trailing not far behind. I look at him pleadingly and Dickon immediately turns tail to retrieve something or other from his bags or the kitchen. He explained to me once that there are a few items in his animal equipment that can transfer fairly easily to us. Penny freezes in place, her eyes glued to the rigid, fitting form of Colin.

"Penny!" I yell, and she snaps out of her reverie. "Go and fetch Doctor James, and then see that the twins stay in the drawing room." I command. Penny does not handle intense situations very well, that I have noticed in her years with us, seeing her handle Colin's problems. Penny rushes off, nodding and mouthing something to herself.

Colin continues to fit, the spasms getting increasingly worse as the minutes tick by. Dr James has told us before that a normal fit lasts anywhere from one to five minutes. I look at my watch – Colin has been convulsing on the floor for nearly twelve minutes now. This is not normal. This is nowhere near normal. I pray silently to myself, clutching his sweaty, clammy hand in mine. Dickon appears at the door with a pail of cold water and a wet rag which he immediately soaks over Colin's forehead. Dickon's face is etched with concentration. There is an eerie silence as he works, the only sound in the room is of the drips of water, Colin's limbs scuffing against the floor and his grunts of pain and agony. After what feels like hours, the tremors eventually subside, until Colin is lying somewhat peacefully, his chest rising and falling quickly. Dickon moistens the rag again and lays it across his forehead.

"Colin," I whisper, moving so that his head is resting in my lap. I gently push the hair off his face. "Colin, you are okay. Colin, it's okay."

There's a loud knock somewhere in the house and moments later Penny comes rushing to the door behind us. "Ma'am, the Doctor has arrived." She announces, rather formally.

"For goodness sake, Penny, then let him in!" I snap frantically, my temper slowly being frayed away by the ever-stressful morning.

Penny reddens, scurries away, clutching her apron and returns with the tall and gangly Doctor James in tow. This man always appears incredibly out of proportion. The unbelievably long and lanky limbs, small head and gaunt face, all matched rather ridiculously with a gargantuan black moustache shot through with grey spread across his entire face. He has been our family doctor and friend ever since Colin moved into the house with us. Penny shows the Doctor in before disappearing. Dickon steps out of the way as Doctor James enters and kneels down at Colin's side, his face deadly serious.

"How long did the fit last? Did you time it like I directed you to?" He starts handling Colin in different places, his large hands feeling for temperatures and skin rashes. When I hesitate, he looks up at me sternly over his glasses. "Mrs Sowerby? What was the duration of the fit?"

"Oh, well, it was –" I glance quickly down at my watch, then back to his severe dark gaze, "Sixteen minutes, sir."

His face seems to darken even further, a crease forming on his forehead and his mouth moving into a grimace. He gets out all his gadgets and equipment to listen to Colin's heart, check his ears and airways and a myriad of other small things that I have no idea of their meanings. Meanwhile, Dickon and I sit next to each other on the bed, looking down at our cousin anxiously. I am faintly aware of Penny fussing over the children down the hall in the drawing room, but I barely hear even that. I take Dickon's hand and squeeze it for a few moments. He looks down at me and gives me a reassuring half-smile. Somehow, it's not quite as reassuring as it usually is. My stomach feels twisted and wrapped around itself. I cannot seem to shake the feeling that everything is _not_ going to be okay, the way it normally is.

Doctor James finally turns his attention to us. His face is grave and when he speaks, his voice is incredibly sombre. "Things are not good here, Mrs Sowerby. Colin is stable and for the moment I have given him a strong sedative. He should not fall into another fit for the time being. However, he is incredibly weak and it is my professional recommendation that we should get him into hospital as soon as possible."

My breath catches in my throat and I bring my hand up to my chest instinctively. Dickon sighs heavily as I stand, my brain returning to auto-mode. Colin is going to the hospital. My mind starts reeling through a list of items I will need for him. Doctor James eyes me warily, continuing his diagnosis of the situation to Dickon as I move about mechanically gathering items from Colin's room. _Colin is losing control of his arms._ A selection of his favourite books. _It is unlikely that he will recover completely from this attack_. The extra pieces and straps for his chair. _Colin's legs and arms are degrading faster than initially thought_. Several of the thick blankets and wraps that I keep for him. _He will need to be seen by a specialist from France_. Sweet rolls and cakes that Penny bakes fresh every week, along with a picture of the family that the twins drew together for Colin.

Before I know it, the Doctor and Dickon are preparing to manoeuvre Colin into his chair so that he can be brought outside to the carriage, to be taken to the hospital. Penny is still keeping the twins occupied in the drawing room. I don't quite know what to tell them just yet. For now, I hope they remain unaware until I know what to do. At our front door, once Colin has been safely ensconced in the safety of the carriage, Dickon comes close to me with urgency in his eyes. Behind him, I realise how the morning has gotten on while we were busy inside tending to my cousin. The sun is further into the sky now and there are black clouds moving in from the west, threatening a thunder storm later in the day. There is an unusual chill in the air this morning. A sharp wind bites at my cheek like a rabid monster. I fold my shawl tighter around myself as Dickon places his hand on my shoulder.

"Mary, I cannot accompany you to the hospital. I—" I start to protest and anger flares inside me. My husband would have to come with me. "Darling, please. You know I am already late for the Hartleps Estate and we need this garden this week. Go with Doctor James and Colin to the hospital. I will see to it that the school knows the reason for your absence and that Penny looks after Martha and Craven. When I am finished with Colonel the Count Hartlep I will come straight to see you."

I debate with myself for a few moments whether this is the best way to deal with the situation. I rely on Dickon a lot in times of stress, especially at times when Colin's health is playing up. But I can handle myself with the Doctors. I nod at my husband and he envelopes me in a warm hug. "I love you, Dickon." I whisper into his shoulder.

He hugs me tighter and then steps back to release me. The Doctor stands at the carriage door, waiting patiently for us to finish our farewell. The coachman, however, is slightly less patient and his horses restless. He eyes us irritably, glancing at his watch and back at us several times. The Doctor helps me up into the carriage and follows me in. We settle either side of Colin's inert form and I automatically grasp his now cold hand in mine. Through the window of the carriage, Dickon remains tall and stanch in the doorframe to our house. The carriage slowly pulls away. I keep my eyes on my husband until I can no longer see him. I can't help the feeling of dread that rises up inside me as he disappears from view.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Let's go! Come on, hurry, hurry! I am so excited, Mary! Mary, I don't think I have ever been this excited! Come on, go faster, please! Make it go faster, Mary! I want to see everything! Dickon, tell them to get there now, I am bored of this place! I want to see it!_

Seeing Colin laying painfully inert and looking agonisingly weak in the hospital bed draws up memories from years ago, when his legs had been the muscular, strapping legs of a healthy young man. One summer, when Colin was twenty, I decided it was time to show the two people I loved the most in life the country that I grew up in. I made all the arrangements. This was when Colin was still at Misselthwaite Manor and with the help of my uncle, Colin's father, the dates were set and we were off to India. Colin was a ball of excitement when we surprised him with the tickets. His wheelchair had been discarded years ago and when he saw the papers lying on the dining table at dinner one evening, he picked them up and eyed them warily. A jubilant smile crossed his face, one that I will never forget, and he looked at his father and I for assurance. We both nodded eagerly, so happy to see the joy on his face. Before we knew it he had dropped the papers and was jumping up and down and around the room like a lunatic. He was screaming and laughing for joy.

Ever since he had met me and discovered that I had emerged from an exotic far-away nation like India, he had developed a love of all things foreign. The night before we were to travel to London, he had Dickon and I up until late into the evening in the Manor as he demanded that I tell him stories of the time I spent there. I showed him pictures and books that he had seen on dozens of previous occasions. Stories I had told him years ago he wanted retold. I didn't really mind. It put a smile on his face and heat in his cheeks. And Dickon sat by patiently listening and watching silently. We said goodbye to my uncle when we left the Manor at dawn the next morning and were off in a huge and opulent carriage drawn by four beautiful horses and a hired coachman.

We travelled for most of the day (Colin elected me to entertain the three of us with more, repeated, stories of India) and finally arrived in Birmingham to stay for the evening. Then we were on to London, and from there, Southampton, to board our ship, The Livia Elena, that would take us through the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal and finally on to India. Colin initially found the voyage incredibly exciting, as did Dickon. I was rather more interested in trying to ignore the memories that rose up and crashed around in my mind unwanted like the giant waves of the rolling ocean on which we journeyed. I very well and vividly remembered my first sailing on the high seas. It involved rather a lot of high-pitched shrieks and teases and jeering calls from my fellow orphans. And a particular song about gardens, which I now loathed. I recalled many lonely days spent down in my cabin that I shared with three other irksome, taunting young girls. And always the emptiness and anger inside at my parents for leaving me like they did, so rudely. There was also fear. When I look back, I always remember the fear I felt. The anxieties of having no idea what awaited me on that foreign shore of the motherland.

But on this trip with two of the only four people I had ever loved, I did not let myself drown in the sorrows of my past. I put on a smile as I watched the two young men jump about and enjoy the wind on their cheeks and the ocean spray. With Colin, the novelty was quick to wear off. It was the third week into our seven week voyage when the complaints started. There was nowhere to go on the ship. He had visited every last nook and cranny that there was. He had talked to every seaman that would spare him a few minutes to talk about the Livia Elena, the voyage, India and life at sea. Colin was one that appreciated what he had in life, and he understood that he was one of the luckiest fools around to have regained the use of his legs so well. And so any moment spent sat down idly twiddling his thumbs was a wasted moment. While Dickon and I were content to sit and talk and watch the endless tossing of the waves at the aft of the ship, Colin wanted to be exploring, moving, leaping as much as he could. He ran about the decks of the ship like a little boy, the wind tousling his lustrous blonde hair. He was as a freed prisoner, absolved of his crimes after years of imprisonment and finally unchained to do as he pleased. Only on a ship of a certain size there was only so far he could go.

And so it was that after what felt like years we set foot in Bombay, India. I breathed deeply of the air, which had a vaguely familiar smell to it. We were shown to our carriage and introduced to our Naukara, Siddharth, who would be our coachman and servant for all our requests for the duration of our stay. It was at the hotel where I would receive a handmaid, a Dasi, to assist me. All of this had been organised by my uncle months ago of course, and I was grateful. A young lady such as myself could not be expected to go it alone with only two boisterous young bachelors to accompany her. It would not be appropriate. Siddharth, who immediately informed us that we could call him 'Sid' if we so wished, loaded our bags into the carriage and took us to a modern, bustling hotel in the centre of town. We would be staying for only four nights, to 'rid ourselves of our sea-legs', as Sid put it rather eloquently. The rooms were sumptuously decorated and simply stunning, and the pretty young dark-skinned girl Faziya was awaiting me in the corner of the room silently. When the three of us met downstairs for dinner, the food was rich and delicious. The hotel saw mostly English guests, so they refrained from having too many strange and exotic tastes on the menu. Colin was thoroughly annoyed by this, but I made sure he knew that when we got to Bangalore in a few days, the food would be far better.

I was anxious of the journey to Bangalore. We stayed five days in Bombay, which we spent exploring the busy port city. Then we were to travel to Bangalore, passing through what I knew to be the village that I grew up in. I had told my uncle that I did not want to see it, but I was convinced later that he had organised it specifically for me to see. The earthquake that had killed my parents had been over ten years passed, and I wondered to myself how much if at all they had rebuilt. It was a busy little area, as far as I could recall. The familiar landscape sent shivers down my spine as our carriage crept slowly through. I had traversed this route many times with my nanny in my youth as we visited the town a few miles away. My discomfort must have shown on my face, as I sat rigidly staring, transfixed, out the window at the small community, as I felt an arm reach around my shoulders comfortingly. I turned to thank him, expecting to see Colin's reassuring smile but instead found Dickon offering me a warm smile.

At the time I thought nothing of it and saw it only as a gesture of friendship. Now I realise how ignorant I was. Colin rolled his eyes at us. I thought he was sneering at my weakness and my display of emotion. I recall him muttering under his breath and I understand now that it was the beginning of his hatred of Dickon, even before our courtship and love for each other was ignited.

Three weeks we spent in Bangalore, exploring the city, enjoying the luxuries the hotel had to offer, tours of the surrounding countryside during the day, dinners with Craven acquaintances in the evening. Colin never grew tired of India. It kindled a passion and burning inside him the likes of which I had never seen before. He so loved the exotic food, the foreign tongues around us and the exciting new things we did each and every day. I think it was the excitement of experiencing everything he possibly could that kept him so happy. His legs never misbehaved once, as they were sometimes prone to do back in England. Perhaps it was the warm tropical weather, being away from the lonely and cold, windswept Yorkshire moors. Whatever it was, Colin was the happiest I had ever seen him during those three long weeks abroad.

If only I knew then what I know now. How dramatically things would deteriorate, nearly the minute we were to set foot back on British soil. Even before we had returned to Misselthwaite Manor, things were happening that were far beyond our control. Things that would ultimately lead to Colin's deteriorated state and his hospitalisation.

**OK, so I did my best to get the facts straight in this chapter and as far as I know most of it is historically correct (like the seven weeks at sea, life in India etc) so if you do find anything wrong, please let me know and I will change it. I know I chose the earthquake story rather than the cholera, but as I said in the first chapter, I am going by the movie not the book.  
>Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Apologies for waiting so long to update...a huge amount of crap happened in my life (big break-up, moved back home etc). Sorry :/  
><strong><br>Chapter 4**

When Colin finally opens his eyes, they are a dull dark brown, seemingly lifeless until he blinks very slowly a few times. Then he appears to register who it is he is looking at and he smiles, a tiny smile that looks as though it causes him great pain. I reach out instinctively and take his hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He closes his eyes at the touch of my hand on his. Tears well in my own eyes, unbidden. The relief of knowing that he is okay is unprecedented. Colin's eyes remain closed as he falls back to sleep. Who knew that being unconscious could be so exhausting?

Outside, it is a clear dark sky. A few smatterings of stars mar the otherwise black canvas. Colin has been asleep for two days. I feel haggard and tired and there is an ache inside that I cannot quite place. I believe it sparks from a need for normality. I want my children beside me. My husband's arms around me. And my cousin free and healthy, laughing. Some things are just not meant to be. I lean forward and rest my forehead on Colin's arm, closing my eyes as I do. He is so cold, his limbs so frail and thin. The tears run down the side of my face and pool on his pale skin. I bring a finger up and wipe them away. Right now, I feel as if even the smallest thing will damage him, hurt him, cause even more pain.

I fall asleep and wake feeling somehow even more tired than before. The clock next to the bed says it is past midnight. I look up at Colin to find him watching me, staring, his hand now draped softly on my head. He smiles that painful smile again, but it disappears as I sit up.

"I hope you haven't been awake for long." I admonish, the mother in me coming through as it occasionally does whenever Colin is ill.

Colin rolls his eyes, a movement that looks odd without the accompanying hand or face movements. It's as if his whole body is frozen. "What does it matter, anyway?" He croaks, wincing as he tries to sit up.

I reach forward quickly to stop him moving. I fluff his pillows. Straighten his blankets. Anything to make him more comfortable. "You need your rest, Colin. Is there anything else I can get you? Would you like some water?" I offer, pouring a glass from the jug next to his bed anyway, regardless of his answer.

He closes his eyes and I hear a sigh escape his pale, chapped lips. "Please, just stay here with me, Mary." He begs, and when he opens his eyes again, all I can see are the tears and the sadness, pleading. Needing.

I move closer and rub his arm soothingly. I cannot get over how cold he is. "I'm not going anywhere, Colin."

We sit in silence for a few moments, and I think for a second that Colin has fallen asleep again. But he raises his hand, reaches up and grabs my own. He brings it slowly but surely to his lips and plants an icy kiss on it. He lets it rest in his lap, our hands entwined together. He watches them quietly. He opens his mouth to speak, but I know what he is about say before he has even said it. The feeling of déjà vu is too much. "Mary…"

I don't give him a chance to speak his mind. I remove my hand gently from his grasp and sit back, staring down at my lap. "Do not say it, Colin." I say, without looking up.

His quiet, hoarse voice is beseeching, but still I do not move my gaze from my hands resting in my lap. "Please, Mary, let me speak. You know how I feel, you know—"

I cannot stand another minute of this. Before I let my emotions get the better of me, I stand up hastily and glare at him. "That is enough! Colin, I have had it. Enough. Now, get some rest." I command with authority. I know that the second I leave the room, it will change things forever. Irrevocably. Just as it did seven years ago.

The visitor's room is empty. I collapse on the padded bench, feeling utterly spent. Tears flow freely down my cheeks. When I close my eyes, willing them to stop, all I can see is Misselthwaite Manor, Colin's heartbroken face in the window, the rain running down the pane emulating the tear tracks down his cheeks. Why was he bringing this up again? Didn't he know, couldn't he see, the guilt I felt every day for what I did to him? For what I am still doing to him? I thought it was over, done with and forgotten. Evidently not.

For the first few days after our return to England, the three of us, Dickon, Colin and I, rested up at Misselthwaite Manor. We slept mostly, or visited the Garden. Colin assaulted his father daily with tales of our trip to India. We were all happily contented. Until things went awry, as they are wont to do. My uncle had left for business for a while. Dickon was busy in the stable. I was writing a letter in the Garden to Martha, who was heavily pregnant in Scotland with her husband. It was a rare sunny day. The sun warmed the back of my neck as I wrote, and when I paused in my scribbling to stretch my hand and neck, I was startled to find Colin standing by the pond watching me.

I smiled and waved him over to sit next to me. "Colin! Do you have anything you wish to tell Martha? She's nearly due." I informed him as he sat down on the bench with a sigh.

He craned his neck to read the letter over my shoulder. That was one of his irritating habits that I hated. He pointed a long finger to a sentence I had scrawled about Bangalore. "He had seventeen wives, not sixteen. And the chilli powder made Dickon vomit five times, not once or twice. Goodness, Mary, if you're going to tell her of our trip, make sure you do it right." He said, giving me a disapproving look.

I huffed angrily. "The little details like that do not count, Colin. I really don't think Martha cares how many times her dear little brother vomited. That's rather unpleasant." When I glanced over to see Colin's reaction, an amused smirk was on his lips. This served to make me even more peeved. "What is it?"

He shook his head, the smirk forming into a smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "It's nothing, Mary, just you."

This irked me but I thought nothing of it and turned my attention back to my letter. I started telling Martha about the happenings in the Manor while we had been gone and since we had returned. Her favourite horse, Polly, had had another calf. Dickon had decided to name him Paulie. I also informed her that Master Craven had hired a new maid – Sara Medlock – Mrs. Medlock's great-granddaughter. Before I could go any further, Colin was at my shoulder, interrupting me yet again.

His finger touched Mrs. Medlock's name on the paper. "You spelt her name wrong. There's no 'c'."

Exasperated, I threw the paper and quill down on my lap and scowled at my cousin, ready to yell at him to mind his own business and leave me in peace. Before I even had a chance to raise my voice, Colin's hand snaked up to touch my cheek. I was rather taken aback by the intimate gesture. All of a sudden, his lips were on mine, very softly but most definitely there. I had no idea what on earth I was supposed to think. What did he think he was doing? Instinctively, I pulled away and looked at him, feeling shocked and…something else. Repulsed? Possibly, there was an element of disgust, but the prevalent emotion was astonishment. My eyes were wide and questioning. Colin was staring at me. I saw a light go out in his eyes that day. Perhaps I didn't see it right then but now, when I look back, I remember seeing his eyes darken and a scowl return to his face.

He wouldn't speak, so I spoke for him. "What are you doing, Colin?"

He frowned, his cheeks reddening slightly. After a long pause, he finally said: "You look rather lovely when you are angry, Mary."

This comment astounded me even further. Did he intend to sound so cryptic, so puzzling? A feeling of realisation began its slow, sneaking crawl up the back of my neck. Did this mean what I thought it meant? "Colin…" I said, with almost a hint of warning in my voice.

He took it the wrong way, misreading the emotion and leaned in again for another kiss. I stood up and out of his reach before he had a chance to connect his lips with mine. This was _wrong_. "Mary, what is it?" He frowned up at me again, his cheeks now a bright red.

I shook my head slowly, trying to decipher all that was happening. "Colin…why—do you—why did you kiss me?" I asked. I prayed silently, futilely, that he had some odd far-off but practical reason for it; a reason that wouldn't jeopardize our relationship as not only best friends, but cousins also.

The emotions were so raw and open in Colin's face, in his eyes. I could see everything he was feeling clear as daylight. His face was now a beetroot red, from his neck up to his ears. I felt so embarrassed and ashamed for him. "I love you. I thought we could be together, stay here at Misselthwaite together, we wouldn't have to let anything, any_one_, get in the way. I thought after India you felt the same. I thought—"

Sheer and utter shock and disgust shook through me in a profound way. Where in the world had this come from? I knew, had known for a while, that Colin wanted me for himself, wanted Dickon gone so he wouldn't have to share his best friend, his cousin, but I had thought that was as far as it went. The jealousy of Dickon – it was far deeper than I had assumed. Did that mean Colin knew what I was feeling about our friend? Could he see it in the way I acted, in my face, the same way I could see the heartbreak and despair shining in Colin's face now? What did he seriously expect to happen? How had I managed to lead him astray so badly without even realising I was doing it? Things were going to be so different from now on. Nothing was going to be the same ever again. I grabbed the letter from where it had fallen on the ground and tried to think of a response. When nothing fitting came through, I simply opted for shaking my head at him, with pity. I couldn't help it. That was what the situation warranted. "You…you thought wrong, Colin."

I fled from the Garden as fast as I could carry myself, without looking back. I didn't even wait to see my cousin's reaction. Had I just ruined everything? So many emotions were roiling and churning away inside me. Once I was inside the house, I shut myself in my room, closing the curtains, hiding the outside world away. I couldn't see into the Garden from here, but I was sure Colin was still sitting there, probably trying to work out where he went wrong. He was so sensitive, so easy to hurt. Surely, he could not have thought that things would work that way. Then again, he could be incredibly arrogant and self-assured in certain things. His spoilt upbringing had ensured that.

Sleep claimed me for a short while. When I woke, it was dark outside and torrential rain had moved in from the west. From the window I could see the stables, where a light was still burning inside. Dickon was still working away, even in this weather. He probably hadn't even come inside for supper yet. I decided to organise a cold meal and take it out to him. The maids in the kitchens gave me a basket and some bread, cold meat and cheese. Outside, the wind whipped at my skirts immediately and pulled my hair in all directions. The rain lashed down on my face with a wild ferocity. This was certainly a storm. I hurried quickly down to the stables, pushed the old heavy door open and shut it firmly behind me.

Dickon didn't hear me over the noise of the storm, and didn't look up when I entered. He was so involved in his task – brushing Polly, one of the horses, down. The concentration and care was etched in his furrowed brow. His hand moved slowly from the horse's neck, down her side and then gently brushing the tail out. Polly was a beautiful mahogany brown, and her coat always gleamed and glistened – the result of Dickon's meticulous care. I watched him, mesmerised for a few moments before clearing my throat to announce my presence.

He jumped at the sound and whipped his head up quickly to see who had disturbed him. A striking smile crossed his face and he straightened up to greet me. "'Lo, Mary. You shouldn't be out in this weather, silly lass, you'll catch a cold." He said, frowning slightly.

I smiled warmly, and crossed the distance between us to pass him the basket. "I brought you supper." I handed it to him and our fingers touched briefly. I felt the static, the electricity pass between us as it had many times before.

It was a long hot summer afternoon when I realised what my feelings for Dickon were. I was eighteen and had never been in love before. Never noticed him in that way before. But ever since he had grown taller and his voice had deepened, I had been oddly shy around him like I never had before. I didn't really understand it, why it was happening, so I ignored it. Then, after two years of watching him in awe, I realised one afternoon what it was burning inside of me. When he entered a room, my heart rate quickened. If he spoke to me, my breath caught in my throat. I could barely concentrate when he was around. And one day, our skin connected, fleetingly, as he passed me a book from a high shelf. The charge, the electricity, was there. I wasn't sure if he felt it too, so I said nothing. But from then I knew that I loved him. It was easier to manage after that. I could tolerate being in the same room as him and I could hold coherent conversations with him for hours at a time.

That's what I loved the most, how much we could talk to one another and connect with each other. Never before had I experienced something like this. Even my relationship with Colin, Martha, my uncle had never been like this. We would sit and chat for hours, without even noticing how much time had passed. It was just that electricity, the spark that was a constant thing. Surely he must have felt it too? I did not have the confidence or bravery to ask him, or make my feelings clear. I suffered in silence.

A small smile was on his lips as he took the basket from me. I could never tell for sure, but I was sure he had flinched as our hands touched. But perhaps that was just me, seeing it because I wanted it to be true so badly. "Thank you, Mary. Shall we sit?" He waved his hand towards the bales of hay stacked against the opposite wall.

I shook my head. "I should get inside and finish my letter to Martha. She's nearly due, you know."

Dickon moved and sat down anyway. His eyes never left mine. It was unnerving. He sat the basket down at his feet. "I know. She writes to me far too often. I never seem to be able to keep up with her." He chuckled lightly and my heart started pounding at the sound.

"I could write for you? I could include what you would like to say." I offered with a smile.

He smiled with a humorous glint in his eye and I blushed. "Mary…" He started, but something seemed to stop him. Oh, how much I wanted him to finish what he was going to say. "Thank you, that would be nice. I never have enough time to write."

I nodded and took that as my cue to leave. As I headed to the door, I bid him adieu. "Good night, Dickon."

Abruptly, without warning, I felt hands on my shoulders, lightly, before I even had a chance to reach the door. I turned around to see Dickon red in the face, embarrassed, breathing heavily as he stared at me. My cheeks flamed red at the close contact, and I could hear my heart pounding against my chest, as if it wanted to escape and join with his at that very moment. Neither of us spoke a word for several very long moments. All the world seemed to disappear and fall away until it was just us left, standing closely together. We didn't need to say anything. Everything became clear, vividly real then. Dickon leaned in close and placed a tender, soft kiss on my lips. His touch was tingly and warm. It lasted but a few seconds, although it felt like a lifetime. And a lifetime that I had been waiting to be in such close proximity to him.

"Mary…" He said again, and I was reminded of earlier in the afternoon, a similar occurrence with my very own cousin. Oh, the differences between the two were startlingly apparent to me then. Two kisses in one day, that had to be a record of some sort.

I stepped back from him, overcome with emotion and feeling. "I must go." I said, not meaning it at all. It seemed wrong, but my thoughts were straying to Colin, sitting alone in that Garden. It would be the death of him if he knew who he had pushed me towards.

Without waiting for a reply or a response from Dickon, I turned and ran back through the lashing rain and biting wind to the Manor. There was a light on in Colin's window, I could see, as I went. Colin's was face in the window, broken, shattered, dead. The rain pelted down on the pane so his face was blotchy and smeared, but I knew he was crying, or had been. I knew I had murdered him inside.

The next day, Colin had a seizure, a colossal fit, the first one in years. The one that started the fits that would plague him once more for the rest of his life. And _I_ had triggered it.


End file.
